


Inside Joke

by Nathaniel_Quietly



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nathaniel_Quietly/pseuds/Nathaniel_Quietly
Summary: Batman has been brought to trial for murder. His best defense? The Clown Prince of Crime.





	1. The Set-Up

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a writing prompt posted to Reddit. This is my first time posting to this site; be gentle.

The funny thing was, he could have picked the locks on those handcuffs an hour ago. That is, if he ever found anything funny. Which he didn’t.

That’s what made him so…delicious.

He was just sitting there, slumped in a padded wooden block of a coffee-stain brown chair, arched forward, head tilted down, eyes on his boots. His lithe swimmer’s body, crunched and huddled into the broken seat, only hinted at the stony slabs of muscle beneath the miracle-thin body armor he wore. His hands were still locked behind his back – they hadn’t even bothered to uncuff him when they sat him down. Too dangerous, they’d think, not knowing, not understanding that he wore those cuffs because he chose to, because he wanted to put them at ease. No one understood him like the Man Who Watched. No one had bothered to try. (Well. Harvey, maybe. But Harvey could never make up his minds about anything.)

They’d taken his cape, and his toys; that beautiful golden belt at his hips that had broken the monotony of dark grey over darker grey, shrouded in black and smothered in secret sauce. He wore gloves, but his gauntlets had been taken – likely they had been surrendered willingly, alongside all the other little accoutrements that made him feel better about himself. 

The Man Who Watched wondered idly if they’d gotten a clean print. Doubtful; even if he’d volunteered to remove his gloves, the Man Who Watched knew that he’d destroyed his fingerprints ages ago. Before he’d even discovered his quest, before he’d taken his first steps towards destiny, his hurt, his pain, had been so unbearable that he’d slashed his own fingertips with a razor. The Man Who Watched knew this because the Man Who Watched had done this; though it had been after his rebirth when he’d found it necessary, not before. 

They’d left his cowl on. Good. The face beneath didn’t matter; it was a blank mannequin slate, empty and aimless and dusty white and blind. Besides, if the cowl came off, there would just be another one beneath it. And another beneath that one, and another beneath that, and another and another and another, like the colored scarves up a magician’s sleeve. Like the endless blades that lined his own pockets. The Man Who Watched giggled impulsively from the shadows at that. There was no stifling it, nor was any attempt made to hold it in; The Man Who Watched had given up on stifling the laughter years ago.

There was a blubbery, balding bundle of nerves and sludgy blood sitting next to him, a sack of suet in an ill-fitting suit (the giggle deepened into a low chuckle at that). It was sweating thick, chunky rivulets under the phosphorous bulbs that lit the mock courtroom, flipping and flapping through great sheaves of distressed, discolored paper in a stripped and hangdog briefcase. The whole room was a patchwork quilt of blinding white iodine light and draping cloaks of inky black shade; no windows, no sunlight illuminated this farce. Someone upstairs had had the brilliant idea to hold the trial in the basement of the Asylum, presumably to avoid the press and the vultures who’d crowded the institution’s gates since the arraignment last month. It’d taken that long to procure a more-or-less proper bench and witness box, a couple of tables for the defense and the District Attorney, and the few folding chairs they needed for those allowed to watch. The jury box had ended up being built from discarded electroshock therapy benches and apple crates. The Man Who Watched appreciated the effort – it meant that he could slip from his cell with practiced ease, and keep an eye on the festivities from the comfort of darkness. He’d even taken a quick detour to the storage room that held inmate’s personal belongings, and had put on the finest suit he’d had onsite for the occasion, just for himself. 

The Jury, such as it was, had already been seated. They were taking every opportunity to gawk and gander, their slack mouths open, tongues lolling out like panting strays, pointing at him and whispering in fat, gurgling monosyllables. The Man Who Watched sneered, his face contorting uncomfortably from its natural inclination. “A jury of his peers,” that’s what the law said, required, demanded. These…chattel were not his peers. No one was, not really, but primping these barnyard livestock in thrift store suits and dollar sundresses and positioning them to sit in judgment of him was not just insulting, it was perfidious. And just upstairs, mere floors away, a buffet, a smorgasbord of those who at least tried to comprehend him. Eddie, Pam, Oswald, Jervis…they weren’t his peers either, but they were certainly better than these flatulent, leering beasts.

It was enough to make the Man Who Watched want to kill everyone in the room. Which, admittedly, had been the plan anyway. But now, he had a reason!

There were a couple of witless spectators sitting in the foldout chairs behind him. Unlike the primate exhibit penned up in the jury box, these fools were quiet, respectful – hands in laps, heads bowed or eyes straight ahead, unblinking challenging daring the darkness to consume them. He recognized Vale from the little black-and-white TV that was up in the corner of the Rec Room; and St. Cloud, the raven-haired debutante The Man Who Watched had once tried to murder. The shlubby pig detective with the trench coat and the toothpick was in the back, pacing like a caged hyena, beady pig eyes taking in everything – everything except the Man Who Watched, who’d chosen a space among the shadows where his own form could remain unnoticed.   
He’d hoped to see the Boy, the one he’d beaten and blown up who had come back a bit shorter and a helluva lot smarter. But whoever he was, he’d been smart enough to stay away. Oh well. Once the Man Who Watched had finished his business here, he’d go upland hunting. 

He looked up, roused from his thoughts; the half-melted gummi bear they’d chosen as bailiff had just called the court to order. Everyone stood up as a shambling, bovine thing in loose black robes, so thin and diaphanous compared to his cape, his royal cloak, lurched from the shadows behind the bailiff and squelched herself onto the bench behind the judge’s podium. She gave the gavel a languid bang and intoned in a nasal, oafish voice, “You may be seated.”

The Man Who Watched had a sudden, desperate wish that he’d remembered to bring some popcorn. Oh well, too late now – the show was about to start.

The stack of blubber lay down her gavel and began the inane ramble of justice pursued. She named the defendant and expectorated the charge: the murder of the esteemed police Commissioner. The Man Who Watched sucked in a breath and kept his long laugh low, though he’d wanted to bray like a stuck pig when he heard that. There had been rumors; everyone in the Asylum had heard them, grousing gossiping grumbling like languid circus folk. That he had murdered the Commish on the very same roof that housed the telephone string that had connected the pair since before the Man Who Watched had introduced himself via the city’s water reservoir so many long years ago. He’d smashed the duffer into the signal, and hurled him into the night. And now, now this delirious delightful rumor had been confirmed, corroborated in a court of law. He had murdered his best friend.

Except of course that he hadn’t. But no one needed to know that. Not yet.

Not until it was funny.

The current District Attorney, twice as handsome as ol’ Harv but only half as canny, gave his opening statement, promising that this kangaroo court would find him guilty on all charges, and strung up across the gates of the Asylum itself, arms spread wide in sullen mockery of the rodent he claimed as his conscience. He stomped and bellowed, parading himself before the anemic audience, putting on the show that would lead to his fame and fortune, if only the sole reporter on site were paying the slightest bit of attention. The fool even bowed to the jury box when he’d finished, as though he’d just killed at Madison Square Garden. The Man Who Watched tittered to himself as his finale thudded at his feet like so much molded cheese.

Then it was the suet’s turn to make his case. The Man Who Watched listened intently for the first time since this sham began. He was curious to hear how poorly this would go. 

“We all owe,” the slop sweated, two fingers sinking into his collar, “this…man a great debt. There is not a person in this room who can say that this man has not effected   
them for the better. Be it a purse snatcher thwarted, a potential arsonist extinguished, the Arboretum’s roaming plant life tamed – this man has stood up to the worst the city has had to offer, and stood firm. For us. For me. For you.” The greasy sack of meat looked at the jury them, his wet eyes pleading. “The prosecution has said that he intends to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that this man – this hero – has committed first degree murder. He will show you crime scene photos, and they will be shocking. He will call witnesses, who will describe the contentious relationship they occasionally saw between this man and the Commissioner, though not one – not one – was on that roof the night this tragedy occurred. He will give every piece of evidence that he believes will sway you to convict this man of a terrible crime. Every piece of evidence he can… save one.

“He will not give you a body. Because no body was found at the scene. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I urge you to remember that we have no concrete proof that the police commissioner was murdered by my client, who I feel compelled to remind you has been a member of good standing with the most well-regarded group of heroes our world has ever known for more years than many of us can count. The prosecutor must prove beyond reasonable doubt – let me repeat that, beyond a reasonable doubt – that the Commissioner died at my client’s hands. I urge you to look at the evidence presented, to hear the testimony of witnesses, and to bear in mind –

“There is no corpse. Can you, beyond a reasonable doubt, convict this man of murder without proof of death?” 

The Man Who Watched gave a slow, soft clap. Pretty words, for so clearly an imbecile. And put together in whole sentences, at that! He was impressed; The Man Who Watched had expected vomit, verbal diarrhea, and tears. He leaned against a basement support beam, crossed his arms, and grinned.


	2. The Misdirect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bullock takes the stand, as the Joker continues to watch from the shadows.

The prosecution’s first witness was the pacing porcine detective. He tromped his way up the isle to the witness stand, lifted his right hand and swore on an old book of fairy tales, and poured himself into the seat, his entire being focused intently on the defendant. The piggy’s very soul burned with cholesterol-choked indignation; his teeth ground and champed at the omnipresent toothpick as the porky policeman glared daggers.

“Can you please describe the defendant’s relationship with the commissioner?” the DA asked.

“Lousy,” Detective Lardass growled.

“Could you be more specific?”

“Yeah, I guess. The Commish thought him and the freak was buddies. Thought he could trust a guy who don’t never show his face. Y’ask me, I think the freak used the Commish as a shield. Hid behind him while he worked outside the law.” The piggy’s meaty hands were restless, spastic. They gripped the podium in from of him, dry-washed themselves, folded under his arms only to come out and run through his matted black hair. It wasn’t nerves; the Man Who Watched had seen nervousness, fear, terror, panic, knew their endless permutations like the back of his gloved hand. This was rage. The tubby copper wanted to vault over his improvised stand and strangle the defendant with bare hands.

How. Delightful. 

The prosecutor frowned theatrically. “When you say he operated outside the law, are you referring to the defendant’s status as a vigilante?”

“Vigilante’s just a pretty word people give to criminals they like,” Porky Police snarled. “I’m sayin’ this freak did whatever he wanted and used the Commish to keep us from stoppin’ him.” The hands stilled, curled into tight red fists as he spoke. 

“The police were helpless in the face of this masked terror,” the prosecutor prompted. It was the wrong choice of words. Truant Officer Tubbo lurched up, swollen knuckles biting into the rail of the witness stand, back arched, head thrust forward with indignation.

“We wasn’t helpless!” he roared. “It was respect! The Commish believed in this freakshow, so we backed off! I didn’t like it, nobody did, but it wasn’t our call!”

The prosecutor had thrown his hands up in submission while the bull had rooted into the verbal china shop. After a moment, he took a tentative step forward again.

“But their partnership was about to change, was it not?” he prompted.

The detective sagged back, his eyes unfocusing. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “The Commish…he told me an’ my partner he was gonna cut the freak off. That city PD wasn’t gonna turn a blind eye to him no more. Not that we’d hunt ‘im – though me and everyone else begged him to let us off the leash – but that the freak wouldn’t have no support from us neither.” There was an audible swallow before the next sentence. “Commish said he was goin’ up to the roof, to hit the signal. Said he was gonna let the freak down as gentle as possible. I says, you want me up there? Some kinda back-up? And he looks at me, right dead in the eye, and says, nah, he’ll understand. He’s my friend.” The wet glare the detective gave the defendant said the rest.

“And that was the last time you saw the Commissioner alive,” the district attorney said.

“Objection!” the sweaty defense pile yelped. “Leading the witness.”

“Withdrawn,” the DA replied easily. “What happened next?”

“Next I hear this sound, this crash, like somebody wrecked a car into a lamp post…’cept it’s on the roof. Then the Commish is screaming, but it’s like it was just outside, by a window. Now we was already heading up the stairs to the access, even before the screamin’ started. I got there first, kicked open the door. I had my piece drawn, and I did a visual sweep of the rooftop.” 

There was a pregnant silence the Man Who Watched desperately wanted to abort – he couldn’t stand the silence, silence was the antithesis of laughter, and if you weren’t going to laugh, you may as well scream, anything, anything but silence – but he held the back alley wire hanger of his tongue and listened.

Finally, not-Harv said, “Can you tell the court what you saw when you surveyed the rooftop?”

Officer Bloat pointed a hammy finger at the defendant and choked out, “I saw that man near the edge of the rooftop, wheelin’ and flailin’ around. He was about ten feet away from the signal, which had been smashed in and was covered in blood.”

“And you are of the opinion that the defendant, in the incalculable anger of betrayal, smashed the Commissioner into the spotlight and threw him from the roof?”

“Objection!” the suet squeaked again. “Your honor, that is clearly conjecture.”

The whale in the judge’s robes spluttered out, “Sustained. Rein it in, Jerry.”

The prosecutor – District Attorney Jerry, The man Who Watched filed away for later threats – inclined his head at her and said, “Please continue, detective.”

The fists had deepened from red to violet, the blood inflating sausage fingers to tubular party balloons. “I fired three times. No hesitation. I marked the ‘vigilante’ as a threat and returned what I considered an appropriate response.”

“Would you call yourself an expert marksman, detective?”

“I’m no expert, but I’m pretty good. Top marks at the academy, and I hit the rage about once a week.”

“You know your way around a firearm,” DA Jerry cajoled. 

“I know my piece,” Inspector Spamalot agreed. “Three shots, aimed for center mass. I knew the freak was armored to hell and back, but I thought I could put him on his ass for a second, get the cuffs on ‘im.”

“And did your rounds make contact?”

“I…I don’t think so. If they did, the freak didn’t show no sign. He perked up at the sound of gunfire though.”

“Perked up?” DA Jerry wheedled.

“Yeah, y’know, snapped to, ten-hutted, whatever you want to call it. I got his attention.”

“And what did you do once you had his attention?”

For a beast so awash in furious umbrage, the potbellied constabulary was iced calm when he replied, “I held my weapon on the suspect and told him to get on the ground  
with his hands on his head. I warned the suspect that if he did not comply with this request, that I would find a seam in that armor he was wearin’ and put as many bullets into it as it took to put him outta my misery.”

DA Jerry tried to hide a grin, and was not entirely successful…though to be fair, the Man Who Watched was well versed in the mechanics of grinning. “And what was the defendant’s – withdrawn, the suspect’s response?”

“The freak laid on the ground, with his hands on ‘is head. I cuffed him and gave him the Mirandas.”

Oh dear. On no, that was too funny. He had laid down and let this body pillow of an officer put him in handcuffs? No grand chase over the city’s rooftops, no fight to the finish, no sheer overwhelming numbers dragging him down, pulling him to their muck, their mud, their plain, sad, tired existence?

That was so funny The Man Who Watched had to laugh. 

So he did.


	3. The Punchline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Joker makes his presence known.

It started deep and low in the throat, voluminous and echoing even as it pushed itself with a stuttering hum through clenched lips. Then those lips split, slipped, slashed apart, ruptured by the force and fury of his chortle, rattling from his guts with machine gun staccato. Then it gained an octave, then another, raising to a shrieking scream of laughter, a whooping shriek that stiffened the sullen slovenly beasts that had pranced paraded pantomimed across their makeshift little stage. The room went still. Not a limb shook, no eyelid blinked, no breath was taken while the laughter penetrated, permeated the court. Not a one.

Except, of course, his.

As the Man Who Laughed (for now he was no longer the Man Who Watched – he couldn’t be, he was a participant, he was taking the stage, he was finishing the joke) walked forward into the unforgiving phosphorescence, he was already on his feet, hands clear of the ornaments he’d worn for their peace of mind, graceful fingers curling into fists, ballet feet finding balance. The Man Who Laughed smiled wider.

“Now, now,” he caressed, arms low and wide, voice silken, “no need for that, darling. I’m not here for a fight. I’m here to rescue you.”

The flabby cow found her composure then, and banged her gavel across the podium as though trying to kill a very persistent ant. “I need security here now!” she screamed. 

On the word “now”, all hell broke loose. The gummi bailiff bounced onto his shoulder radio, screeching for orderlies, for the police, for the gal-durn national guard! Vale and St. Cloud and the other observers were on their feet, cautiously trying to make their way to the exits; they were being blocked by the jury, who had almost immediately plowed for the closest door way to freedom. The cheeseburger with a badge was on his feet again, pawing at his empty holster out of habit; DA Jerry and the shoe excrement that had been brought in to for defense stood slack-jawed, mouths agape, incapable of anything but stares. And him, he was still advancing, eyes cutting around the room, looking for the attack, the rule of three, the joke. The Man who Laughed looked at him (only him, always Him), and said calmly, “Tell them to sit down. Or I kill them. Every single one.”

With a glare blacker than anything in his fancy wardrobe, he roared, “Be calm! Please! For your own safety, please! Sit down! I will handle this.” The way he clenched the word “handle” in his teeth promised a finality that he had only hinted, teased, flirted with before. It was more than the Man Who Laughed had dared to hope.

But that had to be for later.

The Man Who Laughed could see his words were having an effect. The mindless masses had slowed their panicked scramble for release, had ceased their primal shrieks and startled tears. But they hadn’t deigned to return to their posts. That was a problem – the punchline wouldn’t land if all the pieces weren’t in place. The Man Who Laughed decided to season the air with a bit of incentive.

“Tell them, darling,” he said, his voice purring, all attention on him. “I won’t do it now. That would be crazy.” He giggled at his little bon mot before pointing at a sow that looked to be in her late twenties, make-up barely concealing the dark bags under her eyes, a thin stain on the shoulder of her dress. “Her I’ll kill in two years, so it’s the baby’s first memory.” He pointed at another, a clod in an Armani suit with a knock-off Rolex, muscled abs running to fat from the desk he sat behind six days a week. “Him I’ll kill the day of his big promotion.” He flicked a finger towards a pasty, clotted-cream Rastafarian with his blonde dreads in a man bun and patchy stubble flecking his gaunt cheeks. “Okay, him, I’ll kill now. Professional courtesy.”

Still no one was moving. That wouldn’t do; The Man Who Laughed needed an audience. His smile fell, pulling at his face uncomfortably, which only added to the burgeoning cloud of his foul mood.

“Sit. Down,” he growled. “I am loathe to repeat myself.”

Slowly, like an ebbing tide, the herd began moving back to their seats. All except him. He was calculating, processing, trying to find the in. Trying to figure out the game. For all he was, for all his glory, he had never learned that the only way to play was to dive in.

The Man Who Laughed let his grin slide back up, easing his aching jaw muscles. “You too, darling,” he said quietly. “You need to hear this.” After a moment of death-steeped silence, he moved back to his seat, never taking his eyes from the speaker. Good. The Man Who Laughed wanted his attention; craved it, demanded it. 

With a hop and a few skips, the Man Who Laughed landed in front of the faux-witness stand, leaning in on one arm, needled nose a breath from the fat detective’s face. “If you’ll excuse me,” he cajoled, “I need to borrow this for a second.”

“Go to hell,” Constable Chubbs spit, his eyes murderous flames.

“Hell, my dear detective, is other people. If that’s a sentiment you truly hold, why keep throwing me in solitary?” The Man Who Laughed winked. “No please vacate the stand before the baloney smell seeps into the padding.”

Officer Oinks threw a right cross, packing his full force behind the swing. That much weight telegraphed the punch, however, and The Man Who Laughed ducked easily, delivering a sharp blow to the solar plexus as recompense. The Piggy gasped and gagged for a breath; suddenly off balance, he leaned heavily on his left arm, gripping the stand’s rail. A light three-fingered jab to the elbow joint threw him further out of equilibrium. After that it was a simple matter of using his own weight as leverage to send him up and over the stand with a flourish. The Man Who Laughed nimbly vaulted into the seat with his right hand raised while the Bulk in Blue lay hyperventilating on the floor.

“I swear to tell the tooth, the whole tooth, and nothing but the tooth, so help me Szell.” He paused, waiting for laughter. Nothing. Philistines. He sat down.

After another stretch of deathly, deadly silence, The Man Who Laughed gave a joyful wave to the defense table. “Yoo hoo!” he called out. “You there! You should be asking me questions.” He glanced at DA Jerry, caught mid-sit, half-stand by his own table. “You may be seated,” he said. Jerry complied with obvious relief. As though the table would stop The Man Who Laughed if he’d had a mind to murder.

The Defense left his venerated position beside him and stood on shaking, gelatinous legs. “S-s-s-s-sir,” he began.

“You should really have that checked,” The Man Who Laughed replied easily. “A speech impediment like that is a huge detriment to your profession.”

Defense swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and continued. “You said you were here to rescue my client,” he began again, his voice richer than The Man Who laughed had expected. “Can you explain what you meant by that remark?”

“Absolutely!” The Man Who Laughed kicked his feet up on the railing, leaned back in his seat, hands behind his head. “He didn’t do it.”

“Objection!” DA Jerry called. “Supposition!”

The Man Who Laughed pulled his gaze from the defendant long enough to give the DA an icy stare. Jerry wilted beneath it. He was folding in on himself, trying to put more table between his body and the man at the witness stand.

“It’s a fair question,” the judge said from above him. From this position, the phosphorescent light caught her hair like a barbed halo.

“What evidence do you have to support this?” the sack of potatoes claiming defense chimed in.

“If everyone would stop talking, I would tell you!” the Man Who Laughed thundered. His eyes felt molten, his mouth was twisting painfully into a grimace. A bare second later, the smile snapped back into place. “The fabled Commissioner is, in point of fact, still alive. Ergo, the defendant did not kill the commissioner.”

After a suitable pause, the defense press on. “And how do you know the Commissioner is still alive?”

“Because you don’t kill your bait before you hook the line,” The Man Who Laughed responded, sitting up with a jolt as He stood. “Ah, ah, darling, don’t misunderstand,” he waggled a finger, talking fast, “it’s not my bait. I’ve been in here, being good, waiting for my next turn at the board. It was the old man, the environmentalist, the immortal. The Demon. He’s trying to frame you.”

More saturating, cynical silence. Then the defense asked: “And how did he do that?”

The Man Who Laughed sat back down, bouncing, wiggling, trying to find comfort on the small uneasy chair. “Fear toxin. A derivative of it, anyway. Used one of his winged rodent mutants to dose your…client,” he spat the last word out. “The flunkie also smashed the signal before absconding with your dear Commish.”

The defense lard puffed out his greasy, sweated chest and said, “Again, I have to ask: how do you know that?”

The Man Who Laughed rolled his eyes. “Crane talks in his sleep. He’s none too happy that the old man bastardized his formula.”

“Your cell isn’t anywhere near Crane’s.”

“I was on my evening constitutional. The good Jerimiah should really invest in better locks.”

“Enough.” It was a voice tinged with black honey and razor blades. His voice. He was standing again, one meaty fist cupped in the other hand. “Where did Ra’s take Gordon?”  
The Man Who Laughed uttered a theatrical sigh. The joke was almost told, the performance near completion. Just one final gag, and he was finished. Until they began again. “Oh, that I don’t know, Batsy. We’re not exactly pen pals.” He sat for a moment, tapping his chin in contemplation. “Though I do believe Harley mentioned his daughter had been hanging out by the docks. Perhaps they’re awaiting a ship…?”

But that was all The Man Who Laughed had time to say. He had already launched himself from behind the defense table, a perfect flowing form, and that meaty fist connected with his grinning jaw before he had time to mount a proper defense. Then the ice-cold chains that had once held the defendant’s arms pinned behind him were wrapped around The Laughing Man’s own delicate wrists, and he was barking orders out over the sudden chaos, telling the bailiff to call more guards, to throw the Wan Who Laughed back in his hole, before disappearing into the surrounding blackness.

“The people withdraw their case,” DA Jerry shouted over the din. The judge hammered her gavel furiously, aiding and abetting the calamity in her worthless attempts to calm it.

A good joke, rightly told/Provoketh mirth in young and old…

The Man Who Laughed giggled incessantly as he slipped into unconsciousness.


End file.
